Ever since I stopped working 9 – 5, I’ve struggled to get out of bed in the morning. It seems that, when I don’t have to be anywhere before noon, I turn into a bit of a slug. I blame our bed. It’s definitely too comfy, always luring me back to sleep. It’s a temptress really. I can’t be blamed. In fact, I’m bewitched, trapped within its sweet, sleepy spell.
But really, I used to be that person that woke up with a ZANG! I’d barrel out of bed and into the shower, no messing about. Provided that I’d gone to bed early and (relatively) sober, getting out of bed was easy and facing the day was just something you did, no questions asked. Now? Not so much.
Even with enough sleep and no alcohol, I don’t want to get up. I laze around watching the sun trickle through the blinds, dozing off here and there. The dogs seem to have accepted this new turn of events. Previously, the pug would have jumped up against the side of the bed and made his feelings for breakfast known. Now, they just snooze along with me, content to wait until I roll out of bed all bleary-eyed and none-too-chuffed to be awake.
These days, the earliest I start work is 2pm or 3pm. The only reason I might need to leave the house before noon is if I want to go to the gym. By the time I get my shit together, the dogs usually get their walk around midday. What is wrong with me? Why am I so reluctant to face the day?
I used to be the one that bustled around while my partner slept. Now, he’s up before me, says goodbye to me while I burrow deeper under the covers, willing the day to recede just a little. My but the tables have turned.
I have embraced my new hospitality lifestyle with a little too much gusto. It seems that I now live for the night and day time is to be avoided as much as possible. But it can’t be this way. I have shit to do. Or, more to the point, I have shit I could be doing. I need to…